Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“We know that Bradley was killed by a bullet from a rifle fired through a window in another building. Behan died in the exact same way. That can’t be a coincidence. Indeed, it could very well be the exact same killer. Professional assassins like to use the same method of killing because they become so proficient at it. It reduces the chances of an error in the assignment.”

“You sound like you know a lot about that sort of thing,” Annabelle said.

He smiled innocently. “As Caleb can tell you, I’m a voracious reader of thriller novels. I find them not only entertaining but informative.” He looked at Caleb. “Is there any way we can get a look at the woman’s glasses without her knowing?”

Caleb said sarcastically, “Sure, we can burglarize her home in the middle of the night and steal them.”

Stone said, “Good idea. Can you find out where she lives?”

Caleb sputtered, “Oliver, you can’t be serious.”

“I might have a better way,” Annabelle said. They all looked at her. “Does she come into the reading room on a regular basis?”

“Fairly regularly.”

“If she sticks to that schedule, when is she due next?”

Caleb thought quickly. “Actually, tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’ll go to the library with you tomorrow. You point her out to me and then let me handle it.”

“What are you going to do?” Caleb demanded.

Annabelle rose. “Give her a taste of her own medicine.”

After Annabelle had left, Caleb said, “I couldn’t talk in front of her obviously, but, Oliver, what if all this has something to do with the Bay Psalm Book ? It’s incredibly valuable, and we can’t find out where Jonathan got it. Maybe it’s stolen and maybe someone else wants it. They could have killed Jonathan to get it.”

“But they didn’t get it, Caleb,” Stone countered. “The person who knocked out Reuben was in the house. They could have broken into the vault and taken it then. And why kill Cornelius Behan? Or Bradley? They could have no connection with the Psalm Book. Behan didn’t even know DeHaven had a book collection. And there’s no evidence that Bradley even knew your colleague at all.”

After a depressed and confused Caleb had left, Milton and Stone sat talking while Stone flipped through the file on Bradley’s staffers. He said, “Michael Avery went to Yale, clerked for a Supreme Court justice, did a stint at NIC before going on the intelligence committee staff. He moved with Bradley when he became Speaker.” He looked at some of the other pictures and bios. “Dennis Warren, another Yalie, was at DOJ early in his career. He was Bradley’s chief of staff and kept that position when Bradley became Speaker. Albert Trent was on Bradley’s intelligence committee staff for years; a Harvard-educated lawyer and CIA employee for a time. They’re all Ivy Leaguers, all highly experienced. It looks like Bradley had a first-rate team.”

“A congressman is only as good as his staff, isn’t that the old saying?”

Stone looked thoughtful. “You know, one thing we’ve never really looked at were the circumstances of Bradley’s murder.”

“How do we remedy that?” Milton asked.

“Our lady friend is very good at impersonation.”

“The best.”

“How would you like to do a similar run with me?”

“I’m your man.”

Albert Trent and Roger Seagraves were meeting in Trent’s office on Capitol Hill. Seagraves had just handed Trent a file with some briefing material. Trent would make a copy of the file and put it in the committee’s intake system. Embedded within the original file were critical secrets from the Pentagon detailing U.S. military strategies in Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran. Trent would use a pre-agreed decryption method to ease these secrets from the pages. With this business finished, Seagraves said, “Got a minute?”

They strolled around the Capitol grounds. “Boy, Roger, you got lucky with Behan, and the other guy getting blamed for it,” Trent said.

“Understand one thing, Albert: Nothing I do is tied to luck. I saw an opportunity and took it.”

“Okay, okay, no offense meant. You think the charges will stick?”

“Doubtful. I’m not sure why he was there, but he was watching Behan’s house. And he’s buddies with Caleb Shaw at the reading room. And on top of that, the guy I nabbed and ‘talked’ to, this Oliver Stone, is with the same group.”

“Shaw is DeHaven’s literary executor. That’s why he’s been going to the house.”

Seagraves looked disdainfully at his colleague. “I know that, Albert. I did a face-to-face with Shaw to set up a future move if it becomes necessary. It’s not just books they have on their minds. The guy I interrogated used to be at CIA in a very special capacity.”

Trent exclaimed, “You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t need to know, Albert. Now you do.”

“Why do I need to know now?”

“Because I said so.” Seagraves gazed at the Jefferson Building, where the Rare Books reading room was located. “These guys have also been snooping around Fire Control, Inc. My man there said the paint on one of the cylinders they pulled from the library had been rubbed off. So they probably know about the CO 2.”

Trent turned pale. “This is really not looking good, Roger.”

“Don’t start sweating yet, Albert. I’ve got a plan. I’ve always got a plan. We got the last payment in. How fast can you move the new stuff?”

He checked his watch. “Tomorrow at the earliest, but it’ll be tight.”

“Make it happen.”

“Roger, maybe we should just shut it down.”

“We’ve got a lot of customers to service. That wouldn’t be good business.”

“It also wouldn’t be good business to go to prison for treason.”

“Oh, I’m not going to prison, Albert.”

“You can’t know that for certain.”

“Yes, I can. Because they don’t put dead men in jail.”

“Okay, but we don’t have to go that route. Maybe we should think about at least slowing down a bit. Let things cool off.”

“Things rarely cool down after they heat up. We’ll just keep doing what we’re doing, and like I said, I have a plan.”

“Care to share it?”

Seagraves ignored the question. “I’m doing another pickup tonight. And this one might top ten mil if it’s as good as I think it is. But keep your eyes and ears open. Anything looks strange, you know where to find me.”

“You think you might have to, you know, kill again?”

“Part of me sure hopes so.” Seagraves walked off.

Later that night Seagraves drove to the Kennedy Center to attend a performance of the National Symphony Orchestra, NSO. Perched on the edge of the Potomac, the plain, boxy Kennedy Center had often been declared one of the country’s blandest memorials built in honor of a deceased president. Seagraves didn’t care about the aesthetics of the structure. He didn’t care about the NSO either. His handsome features and tall, muscular physique drew stares from many of the women he passed as he walked down the hall toward the auditorium where the NSO would be performing. He took no notice of this. Tonight was strictly a working night.

Later, during the brief intermission, Seagraves joined other patrons in going outside the auditorium to get a drink and gaze over the memorabilia for sale. He also made a pit stop in one of the men’s rooms. After that, the lights dimmed, signaling the start of the last part of the program. In a crush of people he made his way back to the theater.

An hour later he had a drink at a late night bar across from the Kennedy Center. He pulled his program out of his side jacket pocket and studied it. This was not his program, of course. It had been slipped into his pocket during the crush of the crowd getting back into the theater. There was no possibility that anyone could have seen this. Spies who skirted crowds were always caught. For that reason, Seagraves embraced the masses for the protective cover they provided.